


Carcass

by Outis_of_the_Cave



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: And snow, Bears, Countdown to mutiny, M/M, Missing Scene, Oneshot, Other, Pressure Ridge, The Royal Navy, Victorian Attitudes, and cold things, and ice, animal death warning, devious Hickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 09:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15409929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outis_of_the_Cave/pseuds/Outis_of_the_Cave
Summary: Ship's boy Robert Golding goes on a hunting trip with his mates and witnesses a ghastly sight.A one-shot exploring the developing relationships between a band of mutineers.





	Carcass

The newly arrived Spring of 1848 did not bring a thaw, or any amount of relief for that matter, and the _Terror’s_ one and only boy Robert Golding hadn’t expected anything else.

At twenty-three years old he is still a boy; the other members of the hunting party had seen to that. After descending the ice ramp Charles Frederick Des Voeux, who had taken on the many responsibilities of a lieutenant with the absence of Fairholme and the untimely death of Gore taken into account, did not give him any kind of firearm. Instead the mate had given him two haversacks crammed with shotgun shells and musket cartridges. Even after Captain Crozier announced from the quarterdeck to the assembled crews of both expedition ships his intention of sending out hunting parties to scour the springtime landscape for game, he still thought it a joke when Des Voeux handed him the two haversacks of ammunition. It didn’t matter that they were stuck in the ice, he would always be their cabin boy.

Robert Golding, stands at the bottom of _Terror’s_ ice ramp and squints at a bleak, tortured wasteland. This alien world is white, so bleeding white that Golding imagines the Lord Almighty coming down from the heavens and draping this forgotten part of Creation in a giant blanket of fresh linen. But that's wrong he decides, there is nothing smooth or anything reminiscent of warmth in what he sees sprawling endlessly to the greyish blue horizon. It is bruised with swelling pressure ridges and pinned by towering siracs and it is so blindingly bright that there are no shadows at all. The darkness that haunted them for so long is now abolished and replaced by a startling brightness that now threatens to burn his very retinas. Clumsily shadowing both eyes with his mittened hands and stomping his feet for warmth, Golding comes to the conclusion that God has not finished his work here and that He must have left this place half-finished when he took a nap on the seventh day.

And it would appear that he must have forgot his unfinished project too, and everyone in it.

“Frying your eyes isn’t gonna get you out of today’s work,” comes a sardonic voice. Sergeant Solomon Tozer huffs down the ice ramp, the marines musket shaking softly on it’s sling. “Get your glasses on and where the hell is Hodgson?”

“Lieutenant Hodgson,” corrects Des Voeux who is standing with Golding and the others under his command; Cornelius Hickey and Magnus Manson, the two of them looking ludicrous next to each other with their wildly different statures-Manson towering over the little caulkers mate.

“Pardon me, mate,” Tozer replies calmly and steps off the ramp. “So where is our dear lieutenant?”

“Officer of the Watch.” Des Voeux’s voice is stiff, his eyes hooded and his jaw covered by dark scruff. Black, greasy curls spill out from under his cap. The promising young officer noted for his skill in orienteering, who had served on the Cornwallis with James Fitzjames and had been selected by the commander to be a mate on _Erebus_ , and overall gentleman of the Royal Navy is now just another pale and frightened face. But this deterioration is not the fault of sleepless nights and a poor diet. By no means. It is, Golding knows, a downward spiral that started on that sledge trip to King William Land where Des Voeux witnessed the death of Lieutenant Graham Gore. It was common knowledge that the two were friends.

Tozer concedes, avoiding Des Vouex’s gaze and moving two where Hickey and Manson are huddled together. Golding watches Tozer join them and is struck by the irony of the situation. Aren’t lobsterbacks supposed to prevent such...things. Golding cannot bring himself to admit the word, it is obvious to him that the trio are not huddled for warmth. Thomas Hartnell was not afraid to say what it was and warned him about Cornelius Hickey. Golding had laughed at him but now, among these people and yet feeling so alone, Golding is not so sure.

“We move lightly,” Dex Voeux announces to the huddled group while pocketing a pistol and shouldering his shotgun. Not exactly subtle. “If you would be so kind as to haul that little sled Manson, we will be off.”

Golding is too tired, too hungry, too miserable and too apathetic to care where they are going. He only wants to get back to _Terror_ as soon as possible and be done with this fool's errand. They shoulder their burdens and trundle off into the distance. Time passes interminably. There are no landmarks Golding can identify and what he does see is darkened and twisted all out of shape by his glasses that allow him to see at the cost of robbing him of his depth perception. Two dark shapes, one small and one larger, are in front of him that can only be Hickey and Manson. He hears Tozer muttering to his right and to his left come the sound of Des Vouex’s footsteps crunching in the snow, they seem to be dragging a bit.

“I never signed up for this,” Tozer is whispering to him now, “I was at Woolwich where everything was fine-got promoted to sergeant recently, had a good woman-when the commandant tell us that he ‘chose among us best adapted for the service’ and next thing I know I’m here without getting double wages.”

Golding nods. Not knowing why Tozer is telling him this.

“Not that it matters now.” He can just make out Tozer shaking his head ruefully. “Don’t think the Eskies accept notes.”

Golding nods again. His hands are numb and his feet throb.

Robert Golding trudges on in his own private world. One that is made up of exhaustion, cold, numbness and vague, dark shapes expanding and shrinking before him. Eventually, these sights too disappear when Golding looks down at his booted feet and pushes his shoulders forward, as if forcing himself against the cold.

“Golding!” Tozer shouts, “Watch it, Rob!”

Golding jerks his head up just in time to see something large and still facing him down. Larger than Magnus, larger than any column of ice. Why didn’t they give me a bloody gun! Apparently roundshot and a splash of flaming oil was not enough, the Beast has returned and now it was going to finish what it started with Thomas Evans. Golding leaps backwards and trips on his own feet, wildly flailing his arms as he falls. But at least he is out of the Beast’s way. “Take the shot!” he screams. “Kill it!” His calls go unanswered for his mates must have surely run away, and for good reason. He hits the ground, the hard ice knocking the breath out of him, and he raises his arms in a feeble effort to save himself. Would it tear him in two like it did with poor Tommy? Dump his legs on the forecastle and place his head right on top the binnacle? Robert Golding can only cry out when his arms are seized by an unshakable grip, a grip that only grows stronger the more he struggles against it. It’d be so easy to give up, so easy to let himself be taken, but still he tenaciously hangs on to life. It is all he has.

And then the glasses fall away and he stares into Magnus Manson’s smiling face. To make matters worse, he turns around to see Des Voeux and Tozer laughing; _Erebus’s_ haggard mate bent over and his cap in danger of falling off while the sergeant is quite literally shaking with mirth. Golding feels his face redden and in that moment his face is the warmest part of his body. This is somehow worse than being torn apart by an antediluvian beast. Especially having Tozer, a marine, laugh at him. Golding couldn’t care less what his immediate officer thought-Des Voeux was only one of Fitzjames’ handsome golden boys-but Tozer’s opinion mattered greatly. The sergeant was older, experienced, and a man of authority. Most importantly, however, he was a man of compassion beneath his rather gruff exterior. Golding vividly remembers bringing meals to to Tozer who spent entire watches talking to Private William Heather-so cruelly crippled by the jaws of the beast. Now Golding wants that affection, that sense of being looked after, now more than ever. Hickey had Gibson, Harry Peglar had that older man on _Erebus_ and Magnus Manson pretty much got along with everybody. Golding had a friend in Tommy Evans and in a twisted way it was a mercy that Golding had some closure when it came to the matter of the other boys demise. No matter how hard Des Voeux looked, he didn’t even find a half of Gore.

Cornelius Hickey doesn’t find anything humorous about Golding’s situation, apparently. The caulkers mate only stands back with his arms crossed, an expression of concern on his face. It is a small comfort.

“Can’t see anything out of these bloody glasses,” Golding mumbles, knowing how lame the excuse is. “Thought it was the thing, you know.” Keeping his eyes away from the grounds painfully bright reflection, Golding sees that the Beast is just another pressure ridge.

Des Voeux straightens up and composes himself. “Not exactly Lord Nelson now, are you Mr. Golding?”

The question garners a variety of befuddled looks from the assembled men.

Des Voeux gives the pressure ridge a baleful glance. Last year all of them would of been able to scale it’s surface-the nails driven through the ends of their boots giving them purchase on the slippery surface and their gloved hands fighting for a grip-and been able to slide down to the other side. Now they are all too weak and what had once been a nuisance was now a daunting obstacle. The sight of it banishes all feeling of embarrassment and he can only stare at this imposing wall of ice. Why did the captain send us out here?

Des Voeux refuses to acknowledge this. “We’ll rest here and after that we’ll try to find a way around.” The mate sighs and awkwardly crouches on the ground, resting on his heels and awkwardly keeping his butt off the ice’s frozen grip. As if purposely trying to make his posture even more ridiculous, he pulls out a worn copy of the Vicar of Wakefield and clumsily flips the books page’s with his mittened hands. Golding and the others sit down on the small sledge; they are squeezed tightly on the small space, Golding is jammed between Hickey and Tozer, the latter practically sitting on Manson’s lap.

“So,” Hickey says and pauses to wrap up some tobacco (how the hell does he still have some?) and lights it, “what were you saying about good old Horatio?”

“Lord Nelson,” Des Voeux says pointedly, “took part in an expedition to find the Northeast Passage. He was onboard the _Carcass_ when she was trapped in the ice in ‘73.”

“Did Lord Nelson’s ship get any farther?” asks a wide-eyed Manson.

Des Voeux shakes his head.

“You’d think they’d learn to stop trying after the first time,” notes Hickey, rolling his head around and exhaling a thin ring of smoke.

Des Voeux scowls at Hickey. “You volunteered for the Discovery Service.”

“Sure,” replies Hickey, easily enough, “but I was expecting to be in warmer climes by now.”

“But what about Lord Nelson?” Golding brings the conversation back on track before things could get out of hand between the two men.

“What happened, Mr. Golding, was that Lord Nelson caught sight of a white bear. Ursus maritimus. He grabbed a musket and leaped over the gunwale and onto the ice. Lord Nelson, who was only a midshipman-younger than you Mr. Golding-closed in on the beast and fired his musket! But it misfired.”

“Goes to show he was no bloody marine,” Tozer comments, a wry grin on his face. “He would have been flogged back at the Woolwich Barracks for not taking proper care of his musket.”

“He borrowed it,” Des Voeux explains, no doubt eager save the former admiral’s reputation. “Anyway, right when the bear draws back it’s paw in preparation for a mighty blow that would take his head clean off, a mighty rift opened in the ice and separated them. _Carcass_ fired one of it’s guns to scare the animal away but by then Providence had brought the future admiral to safety.”

“Just so he could be killed later.” Hickey grins. “Funny how the good Lord works.”

“You would do well to mind your tongue, Mr. Hickey,” Des Voeux growls and puts his book away.

“But why was Lord Nelson so eager to kill that bear?” Golding says, once more keeping the peace.

“Because, Mr. Golding, Lord Nelson wanted to bring a fresh, white pelt home to his father.”

“More like to get a few pounds for himself,” remarks Hickey.

“A white bear pelt’s a valuable thing, I imagine,” replies Manson.

“Not worth as much as all the prize money he later earned.” Des Voeux is more at ease now, reading his book again.

“You think Nelson ever spent some of his prize money on a knee-wobbler?” says Tozer.

Hickey beams at the marine. “You ever see a portrait of the man? Nelson didn’t need to pay with what he got. You know, when he lay on his deathbed he asked his dear mate Hardy to-”

Des Voeux leaps to his feet. “That’s enough, Mr. Hickey! Let’s get on our feet. Manson, the sledge.” They all rise, Hickey grousing as usual and Tozer shouldering his musket. “We’ll split up and meet on the other side,” Des Voeux explains. “Tozer, you will take a haversack from Golding and go to the right with me. The rest of you take the left.” Des Voeux leads Tozer away, the marine giving Hickey a despairing glance, and are soon consumed by jagged outcrops of ice.

Hickey, Manson, and Golding are left alone.

“Figures he took Solomon with him.” Hickey actually sounds like he is genuinely bitter about the arrangement. “It’s not like Heather did Gore any good.”

“The thing on the ice is dead,” Manson sounds adamant. “You saw how much it bled after attacking Mr. Blanky.”

“And did you see a body at the end of it, Magnus?” Hickey leaves the question hanging and, when he hears no response, he leads the way around the pressure ridge.

A fresh wave of fear overwhelms Golding that is more poignant than the usual dread he always felt while within the dark lower deck of the _Terror_ during the previous winter. The Beast could be on the other side of the ridge, waiting for them… Maybe Des Voeux and Tozer were already killed and the thing was loping right after them, teeth bared and ready to…

“Might as well leave the sledge behind,” Hickey tells his significantly taller companion. “We won’t be hauling any game back.”

“Then why are we out here?” the question leaves Golding’s lips unbidden. He hurries after Hickey. “Why?”

Cornelius Hickey rolls his eyes and gives the boy a rather smug smirk. “Crozier explained everything at our lovely Carnival. We’re going to be leaving the ships soon and everyone’s going to need as much victuals as possible if we’re going overland.”

“But there is no game!” Golding raises his voice as though all of his misery is the petty officer’s fault. “No game and even if their is, we can’t possibly feed everyone!”

“Of course,” Hickey says with a bored resignation. “I know it, you know it, we all know it.”

“So, why are we out here?”

“Because Crozier’s desperate, Robert,” Hickey says as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “He wants us to think that everything is just fine, that there is no problem British ingenuity and hard work cannot solve.” Hickey spits out the remains of his rolled up cigar and watches it freeze in mid-air. “He has no idea what he’s doing. No one does. Not us, not the officers.”

“And you do?”

Hickey gives him a quizzical look. “Walk with me,” he whispers.

Thomas Hartnell warned him about this; but Robert Golding is hungry, tired, lonely, and scared-so incredibly scared-and he needs anyone, someone to tell him what to do and allow him to believe that their was indeed a way out of this. Golding sidles up to Hickey and matches his strides to his.

“Things will be happening quickly now,” Hickey explains. “I tried to tell you this at the Carnival, remember?”

How could he forget? The bewildering array of multi coloured rooms, the outrageous costumes; and a cheering Commander Fitzjames in the garb of Britannia being carried around by a procession of wood sprites, nymphs, satyrs and squawking birds; Hickey dressed as a dapper gentleman, quickly whispering to him in the middle of the mad swirl and leaving Golding alone to call after him. “I remember.”

“Captain Crozier is fallible, him and all the others. You wouldn’t dive overboard if a toff all done up in braid told you to do so, would you?”

Golding shakes his head.

“I thought so. None of us would, because we’re smart and know how to fend for ourselves.” Hickey stops and rests a hand on Golding’s shoulder, turning the boy around so he is looking down into Hickey’s eyes. They are blue, but unlike most pairs of that color they are very dark. “What are we going to do, Robert?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you do,” Hickey insists, “you do.”

“I wish you were right.”

A soft scrape from around the corner causes Manson to lift up his shotgun. Golding is about to chastise him for being frightened by the moving ice but he hears it too, a soft sliding now. Hickey creeps forward with his weapon raised and together they all face where the pressure ridge meets an abrupt end. They wait, Golding willing whatever it is to come wheel around and face them, but their is only a breathtaking stillness undercut by the beating of his heart.

It cannot be the others; the noise is too quiet and intermittent. Slide, scrape, slide. Something is foundering out there. Not man, nor the thing on the ice. A lightweight creature.

Hickey gives turns to Golding and winks.

“No,” he breathes.

Hickey doesn’t seem to hear him. Moving together with Manson who follows out of his own volition-too dumb to be afraid, in Golding’s opinion-Hickey creeps around the edge. He moves carefully on the ice, placing one heel down before slowly letting the rest of his foot fall-the result being that Hickey moves as quietly as a rat scurrying around the hold. Where did he learn to do that? The boy wonders, curiosity briefly overcoming his fear. Golding follows, imitating the caulkers mate’s footfalls and allowing Manson’s heavy thudding to cover his own. Hickey pauses, bringing them to a sudden halt. Golding prays that this is the part where they all turn around, Des Voeux and Tozer be damned, and head back to the ship. So what if he is punished as a boy? Anything is preferable to rounding the corner and running right into the massive forearms of that thing.

Hickey raises the gun, takes a deep breath, and swings around the corner. Golding shouts but his voice is consumed by a terrible noise sounding like a massive sheet of canvas being ripped in two. Without a second thought, Manson flings himself out into the open but their is no sound, not from man nor monster. Golding wants nothing more than to throw down his haversack and cry out, but what would they think of that if everything is fine? He remembers their laughing faces and the fact that he is twenty-three, he has reached manhood and done so on this damned voyage of all places. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Golding swallows his fear and follows the footprints in the snow.

He sees the blood first, so stark against all the white. Manson and Hickey stand around it, the latter cradling a smoking gun. Footsteps can be heard some ways off, hardly audible. Peering over Manson’s shoulder but not daring to get too close, he notices two dark spots glimpsing out of a pool of scarlet-these colors are an alien, irritating presence. They don’t belong here, their presence is so incongruous to this half-formed, forgotten land. It isn’t the blood that’s unusual, Lord knows he’s seen plenty, it’s the freshness that serves as a morbid novelty.

It is Manson who breaks the silence. “We could have taken it as a pet,” he laments.

Now young Golding realizes that they had actually done the impossible; catching game in the form of a small, white bear cub. A petty vengeance against the thing stalking them, he muses, a little spitefully and feeling his usual worn out apathy. This doesn’t seem real at all; the idea of anything living out here-himself included-always was too ridiculous for him.

Hickey touches his mate’s arm. “Would have been another mouth to feed,” he softly chastises.

It’s an oddly intimate moment they all find themselves in; standing around the fresh kill and in Golding’s case, marveling that such a thing was possible. He watches everything as though outside himself; clearly imagining the two of them standing around the kill and himself slightly behind them, all them enwrapped in this frozen stillness smelling faintly of copper.

It is ripped away by Des Voeux’s high pitched voice. “You caught something?” the officer calls, a hysterical edge in his voice. “Don’t tell me you left the bloody sledge behind. Mr. Honey-”

Something large, fast and white surges over to the fresh kill and the men around it-having seemingly emerged from the terrain and sending them all staggering back. Time slows. Hickey turns about and dives for cover. Manson does not follow, instead digging his heels in and emptying both barrels on the shape hurling itself blindly in their direction. The air comes alive with shouts and cries and shooting. Des Voeux is a vague shape on the edge of Golding’s vision; _Erebus_ ’ _s_ mate fires his pistol-looking comically small in his mittoned fist-and a serac explodes into a myriad glittering fragments. Tozer screams at Des Voeux to get down, struggling to properly aim his long musket without having the jittery man get in his line of sight; eventually being forced to trip the jittery mate and firing before the fallen man even hits the ground.

Still it came.

Golding is utterly transfixed by the sight that greets him. It is a bear, a fully grown white bear coming at him. It’s fur possessing a slight yellowish tint and it’s black eyes larger, more horrid imitations of that of the cub’s.

“Don’t just stand there!” bellows Tozer in a voice he usually reserved for the _Terror’s_ privates. “Get out of the fucking way!”

Golding at last snaps out of his spell, grabbing a gaping Manson and dragging him to where Hickey watches from the relative safety of a small, shallow spot near the pressure ridge. They won’t make it, and perhaps it would be less painful if the two of them just embraced their fate, but Robert Golding wants to live. Beneath all the apathy-the constant detachment that took hold of him during the winter-is the overwhelming urge to keep pushing on. Inexplicably, miraculously Sir John would have said, the bear stops...and seizes the slain cub’s body in its massive jaws. Another shotgun firing and the scraping of a ramrod in a musket barrel are all startlingly distinct amidst all the commotion, but Golding’ attention is solely held by the ghastly sight of the white bear carrying what will surely be its meal away to whatever hole it crawled out of-unheeding of the humanity panicking around it. Soon it is completely gone, once again being consumed by series of icy outcrops.

As Golding’s breathing slows down and his heart begins beating at a reasonable pace, he realizes that this whole event must have occured over the span of a few seconds. He wants to cry or laugh, maybe both.

Des Voeux comes huffing up to the killing ground and stares at the bear’s footprints without saying a word. He punches his fist into an open palm; whether out of frustration or to keep his hands warm is hard to say. “It’s a shame,” he says at last, “Dr. Goodsir is not here, he was alway talking about those animals.”

Hickey gets on his feet, brushing the snow off his knees and sidling up to Des Voeux. “Was only a cub. We weren’t going to feed everyone with that catch.” Hickey smiles to himself as if he found such a scenario to be hilarious.

The three others join them and form a semicircle around the large footprints that disappear off into the distance. Following them is out of the question and yet that is on all their minds as they silently stare at one another To come back without trying would be tantamount to cowardice, especially when so many were counting on them. Des Voeux catches his breath, his body hunched over and hands on his knees, but everyone knows it is more than physical exhaustion keeping him down. The others would face the judgment of their peers while it was all up to Des Voeux to make his report directly to the captain and be held accountable for what transpired out here.

Hickey clears his throat and speaks for all of them. “That's all there is for it. Time we should be heading back.”

De Voeux gazes at him, a forlorn look on his face. “And tell them our catch got away?” The question is clearly meant to a sarcastic, biting one, and that makes it all the more pitiful. The mate is alone amidst a sea of snow-white capped waves standing out rising out of an ocean of saffron.

“We,” Hickey says and sweeps his eyes over the assembled group, “only need to tell them we didn’t catch anything. Now thats not a lie, is it?”

“It’s the truth,” Manson answers.

“Thats right.” Hickey nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I know what I’m going to tell everyone. Whether you want to complicate things or not is up to you.” He walks off and the others wordlessly follow.

“A single catch is hardly going to feed anyone, anyway,” mutters Tozer.

So ghastly was this event that it hung over Golding all during the return trip so it was with some surprise when Hickey started whispering to him. They were in sight of the _Terror_ when he had somehow gotten close to him, placing a soft but firm hand on his wrist. “My question still stands,” Hickey insists.

Golding trudges on, pretending not to notice.

“No need to worry,” says Hickey softly, “you don’t have to say anything. When the time comes you’ll have an answer.”

Fortunately, they were not the first ones back. Other hunting parties, their sledges all too empty, have arrived and are now clustered about the ice ramp like so many schools of fish. Rubbing his thin arms, Golding ascends to the _Terror’s_ main deck and; upon standing on the deck that had recently been sprinkled with sand so as to give the men some traction on the wooden surface, he notices that he is quite alone. Looking over his shoulder he sees that they are all still on the ice. Hickey, Manson and Tozer form their own little cluster; shoulders hunched together and heads bent forward-anyone else watching would think their doing it for warmth.

“Excuse me, but is Cornelius…Is Mr. Hickey back?” comes a timid voice.

Golding can tell just by the voice that it is William Gibson speaking. He twists about and sees Gibson looking earnestly at him, blue eyes wide and nearly blue lips locked in a grimace. He gestures downwards.

“Thanks,” Gibson hurries down and joined Hickey’s group. A mild surprise, considering their falling out (word spread quickly belowdekcks).

What does surprise him is when Des Voeux untangles himself from whatever lieutenant is down their and attaches himself to Hickey’s cluster. Now that is quite the development; one he finds to be very troubling, indeed. One that he’d have to live with.

Golding turns his back on the conspirators and goes below.

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot whether it was on a podcast or twitter; but their was supposed to be a deleted scene where Manson and Hickey watch a bear cub eating another one. This oneshot was originally meant to be a recreation of that scene but since I didn’t know much about it at the time I decided to put my own spin on it. Originally, this deleted scene was going to take place after Young’s burial and serve as some very early foreshadowing, but when I first heard of it I got the idea it would happen later and so the idea for this took shape. 
> 
> Des Voeux really did serve aboard the Cornwallis with Fitzjames according to James Fitzjames: The Mystery Man of the Franklin Expedition. Even more interesting and very tragic is that he was promoted to lieutenant on November 9th, 1846-the year both ships were trapped in the ice off King William Land-according to A Naval Biographical Dictionary which can be accessed on Wikisource. Other officers of the Franklin Expedition have entries on this document that was published in 1849; a year after both ships are abandoned. I wanted to give more details about Tozer but I couldn’t find much on him, so I made up most of his background. Their is an academic article about the marines of the Franklin expedition but it is sadly behind a paywall and documents that may have held information about him were in un-digitized archives. Still it is within the realm of possibility that he was at the Royal Marines Barracks in Woolwich shortly before being sent off to the Arctic. The barracks were in operation at the time and the Woolwich Division was active their until 1869. Horatio Nelson really did serve onboard the Carcass (what is with these names?) as a midshipman in 1773. Did he really pick a fight with a bear, though? Nelson never mentioned it and the story only began to circulate many years after the fact. 
> 
> Sorry for not responding to any of the comments on my stuff. I’m very self-conscious about uploading things and I get worried when I wonder what someone else is thinking about it. 
> 
> More is on the way! 
> 
> Links:  
> [Solomon Tozer](http://visionsnorth.blogspot.com/2015/09/solomon-tozer-royal-marine.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [A Naval Biographical Dictionary](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/A_Naval_Biographical_Dictionary)
> 
>  
> 
> [Nelson and the Bear](http://collections.rmg.co.uk/collections/objects/155287.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [Shako Plate (as seen during Franky's leg funeral)](http://www.canadianmysteries.ca/sites/franklin/archive/image/ShakoPlate_en.htm)
> 
>  
> 
> [All sorts of artefacts.](http://collections.rmg.co.uk/collections.html#!csearch;authority=event-4734;browseBy=event)


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